The bleak heap of stops and starts you sit on;
It won't stop growing. This is called a life.
Allfather, hunched and hid in the shadows,
Swallows your thrown words and laughs like a wall,
Forgiving nothing, taking it all in.
No place for you to stand and yet you do,
Trembling with facticity and bad light.
Why are you here? You're nobody's answer.
You are a piece of burning information,
A nugatory sheet of rotten codes.
The umbilical grip of history
Holds you to other people’s promises.
Pressing yourself forward, you’re pulled back hard
To the bleak heap, the ache of yet again.